


Meeting On A Train

by Mooninscorpio



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 18:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5675356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mooninscorpio/pseuds/Mooninscorpio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time:  Post-"YHWH" S4 finale.  Eight months into the future after the "Correction" instituted by Samaritan.  John Riley, aka Reese, upon returning to his precinct job, has become the reluctant center of attention and close scrutiny by Cap. Moreno and his colleague.  Set. Lionel Fusco, more physically injured after the explosive events at the Roosevelt Is. power station, was given medical leave of absence x 1 month, in order to recuperate from his wounds.  Dr. Iris Campbell was asked to begin counseling sessions with Det. Fusco, due to the heavy supervisory responsibilities as Chief Detective of the precinct.  In his counseling sessions, she gleaned that he and Det. Riley both seemed to have a very close bond although both were as unalike as night and day.  Det. Riley was given more "desk work" as soon as he returned to work normally assigned to Fusco.  He did it grudgingly but oddly grateful that it kept him off the streets away from Samaritan's ever encroaching threat to his "cover".  There were hardly any Numbers after the Machine "died", just a small list of the last of them which the Machine bequeathed to Harold before it went offline.  John is given a rare day off by the Captain and he heads downtown to see Harold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting On A Train

 

 Januaray 2016,  John is off on a Monday, President's Day, a rare day off given by the Captain, who suspected that her perennially elusive detective was either deeply involved in the Roosevelt Is. explosion or had something to do with the Brotherhood's demise. Fusco had arrested Dominick, yet he himself was almost a target of some mysterious band of snipers who killed off Dominick and the purported leader of the Five Families. Riley had returned to work looking pale, uncharacteristically late and seemed to be always looking over his shoulder, as if, threatened by someone, or "something" the Captain couldn't fathom.

John walking down Sixth Ave. and 21st St., the overwhelming sight of the Freeedom Tower gleaming gold and icy blue between the skyscrapers on either side of the avenue. He wore a black parka, hood covering his reddened ears and cheeks. The weather had turned Januaray-frigid, after the unseasonably mild winter up until past New Year's weekend. He had the entire day to decide what to do: should he visit Iris at her apartment? She was off today too - after working holidays and extra Saturdays last month. Last June, she had asked to be "reassigned" to a more gentrified precinct further uptown, near Columbia Univ., where she had begun teaching advanced psychology courses, which were well attended. She and John could see each other with less duress and prying eyes at the Eighth. Yet, John had been swamped at work and whatever spare time he had, he headed to Harold's underground, to check on his progress with rebuilding the ailing Machine.

He spotted a redheaded teenager rushing to work.  When was the last time he spent a day with Iris?  No, he didn't want to see her today - not today, not another stalemate conversation about "when are you going to tell me what you're really up to lately?" from her. No agonizing silences, no half-answers to quell her curiosity a little.

He gazed intently at the majestic tower, as he arrived at 14th St. and smelled the mid-morning aromas from the outdoor food vendors, readying for the lunch crowds. As he shielded his eyes from the blinding golden brilliance of the Tower, he remembered the day nearly fifteen years ago. His mind replayed a split-second memory of Jessica and him in Mexico, watching the news on Sept. 11. Fast forwarding, the image of Joss' old military photo in her apartment, alongside Taylor's prom photo. He had promised her to look in on him ... he hadn't been able to do even that poignant last request. HR, then Vigilance, then Samaritan and on top of that, his pseudo-detective job with its impossible paperwork and time crunching demands. Physically and emotionally exhausted of the double life. Sexually frustrated too. Iris wasn't "enough" for him and he craved something more. Plain and simple: At the end of the day, no one he'd rather be with than Harold. Even now, when the air between them felt so different since those early years together, when the threats to his life were simpler where he only had to look out for the CIA and the perpetrators that the Machine delivered by payphone.  When would he ever just live a normal life, like these nameless New Yorkers rushing to work or seeing a friend on their day off?

His legs were beginning to cramp from the cold, as he decided to catch the subway to Canal St. and walk the rest of the way to Harold's secret entrance. He pulled his hood further over his forehead and his eyes roved over the pedestrians surrounding him: No one he knew, no Shaw, no Root, no snipers, no Elias, whom he thought about frequently nowadays,  as his eyes scanned the rooftops of the old office buildings along Washington Square Park. His eyes rested on the familiar abandoned Library. His heart twinged at the memory of Harold and him, solving the Numbers cases, Bear's bed by Harold's computer desk, the dusty bookshelves holding the key to the social security numbers given by the old Machine. He sighed as he perceived that the Machine too, had a life it could never go back to, just like all of them now.

He finally arrived at the worn, uneven basement steps, leading to the secret vending machine entrance door to Harold's IRT underground deep in Chinatown, punched the code rapidly, while stealing a backward glance behind him. and noiselessly entered the dark corridor. Once again, he smelled the familiar drafty odor of the abandoned subway tunnel, and descended the flight of stairs anxiously looking upwards at the old art deco arched ceilings for the familiar amber lit chandeliers. If they were on, Harold was there. Comfortingly, they were, meaning that Harold was safe inside the subway car working on fixing the Machine. he strode quickly now, immensely relieved in every fiber of his body. He missed Harold more with each passing day not working the Numbers. Actually, it had been weeks since he was able to make it down here. He wanted to know how Harold was getting along with fixing the Machine, with or without Root.

Harold heard the familiar long-absent footsteps, his eyebrows shot up, like Bear's ears, who gave a sudden excited whine and sprang off his bed to meet his long-gone master. Shedding Riley for Reese, John leaned down and gave Bear a long, affectionate bear hug, feeling the animal's warm fur against his cheeks. Some things never change, not even Samaritan can change Bear, he thought triumphantly. He looked up at Harold, who was now standing at the subway door, his cheeks reddening.

"Mr. Reese! I thought you'd gone on sabbatical upstate somewhere. I haven't heard from you in weeks!" he huffed as he straightened his vest, obviously pleased to see his partner.

"That's YOUR department, Finch!" Reese wryly countreed, with a faint smirk across his cold cheeks. Harold smiled at the inference.

"I'm afraid these days, the university has had dwindling enrollment this semester, and I am on the verge of being cut back from the faculty soon... which suits me just fine, as i have more pressing matters to attend to." he spun around and headed back to his desk.

"Understatement of the century, Harold." John followed him inside, glancing at the stacks of software paraphanalia on his desk and shelves.

"How's the Machine? Is it still compromised?" he zeroed to the main question as usual.

"Root has been here to help, yet, at times, we're at odds about how to go about rebuilding. I'm afraid Ms. Groves still wants to be its main Interface. But, I'm afraid, the Machine no longer speaks to her as it once did. "Harold sat down with a sigh, and resumed typing.

"In Special Forces, to beat the enemy, we had to sometimes be the enemy." John carefully murmured as his hands ran along the length of Harold's desk. He held his breath, as he saw the beautiful burgundy vest Harold wore, watched his hands fly over the keyboard in the thrilling way he first noticed back in 2011, when the reculsive and kind billionaire saved his life.

Harold paused, lifting his hands from the keyboard and turning around to face John squarely, he said in a mere whisper, as if afraid to hear his own verdict.

"That's exactly what I'm doing John. And she doesn't know it, nor will she ever. Only you know it." Harold's blue eyes blazed like immovable glaciers, as John stared at him, speechlessly. Harold cleared his throat, and folded his arms across his vest.

"So you see John, I've had to go to the other side." Harold suddenly closed his eyes, exhaling, as if he unloaded a heavy burden from his shoulders. Momentarily shocked by Harold's admission of his terrifying plan, John stared at the blinking monitors displayed in his eye view.  His mind reeled at the thought of Harold going to that darker side.  Harold not telling Root was an even more mind-boggling thought.  That meant he wanted to spare her from certain martyrdom for "her".  Harold wanted to go down with his child, taking no one prisoner with him.  

"Are you trying to infiltrate behind enemy lines Harold? Finding the enemy's strengths and weaknesses?" John continued with the military references, waiting for Harold to further explain his plan for world salvation.

"To do that, I may need your advice on tactical strategy, which i sorely lack, which you so effortlessly are adept."

Harold watched John removing his heavy jacket, noticing that he wore casual jeans and his black combat boots today. Harold was suddenly looking at him at a loss for words, mesmerized as he watched  John cross and uncross his long legs, and his throat went dry. It was weeks ... long, agonizing weeks, not knowing whether John was still alive or if he too, was swallowed up in Samaritan's hell of an afterlife. After weeks alone in the subway underground, with no one to confide in, Harold couldn't believe John was sitting there so casually, so unaware of the effect he was having on him. John dimmed the lights, to lessen the glare, which bothered him here sometimes,  

"What kind of tactical strategy do you need Harold? I know them all like the back of both of my hands." John's words were making Harold dizzy, and he swallowed hard, as John rotated in the small train seat to face him. The man was a born seducer, without even trying, he thought wildly, as he imagined what he might have been like in his thirties as he gathered intel around the world, as well as whomever else he gathered to his bed.  Harold stopped typing then, because John was now standing, walking towards his desk slowly.  Was he talking about the mission strategy, or was he flirting with him?  All Harold could hear was the clicking of the monitors as time  suddenly stood still in the dimmed, crammed makeshift subway office. 

" But I don't see the bigger picture Harold. That was never one of my strengths." John confessed. He looked at Harold just then like a student waiting for the failing grade. 

"For now John, we'll just concentrate on your other strengths." Harold couldn't life his head higher to look up at John, on account of his old traumatic cervical injury. Seeing his slight wincing head movement, John walked around to the back of Harold's chair. Very, very gently, he placed both hands on the back of it, and Harold was lost and his heart pounded hard as he felt John's fingers gripping the chair against his back.

"Like the back of both of your hands." Harold barely whispered. John pulled away silently, walking out to the stairway again, hastily rolled the security gate across it, locking it quickly. No one could enter now and disturb them Re-entering the dimmed subway car agian, he shut the door and turned the lights down even more. Harold was standing and watched him approach. He could only make out his face in the single light from the monitors on the walls. He saw everything he wanted to see on his face. Whatever he couldn't see, he could feel.

"What do you want my hands to do Harold, hold a weapon? " John teased in his most sultry whisper, as Harold felt John's lips brush against his earlobe. The man was a born Sheherazade, and Harold had a thousand and one nights in his imagination to fulfill.

Harold suddenly felt his knees give way, as he felt John's legs and hips pressing him backwards against the only empty wall space available. It was almost totally dark now, as the monitors flickered on and off.

"Mr. Reese -- ! you know how I hate weapons!" Harold gasped as John sat him down on the small seat he'd previously sat in when he first arrived.

"Don't worry Harold, I know how to hold one, without hurting anyone." Harold heard John's raspy voice in the darkness, heard the rustling sounds he made with his boots in front of him -- as he began kneeling in the overcrowded corner. Harold sat bolt upright, all his senses completely awake now. The daily lethargy which blanketed him most days when John was absent, was now gone in an instant.

"Go ahead John, you're the expert." Harold managed to say, in a voice that didn't belong to him. Harold couldn't even see John, but he ran his fingers through his silky gelled hair, felt how John's biceps bulged underneath his shirt. Good God was John working out more these days? Harold thought hotly. He gripped those rippling arms, as John's hands clenched his waist. In only a matter of minutes, the man called Harold Finch was a mystery completely unraveled, and John knew how to hold him without hurting him, as he promised. Harold could feel how pent up John was from their self imposed separation.   He felt the heat of his body through his clothes, and how John abandoned himself completely in wanting Harold to be first, and he, last. John spared nothing today, and all Harold could do was succumb to the rising love and passion that only John could bring out from him. 

Harold slept on the seat, with John lying on the hard subway car tile across his feet.  Soft dog snoring was heard throughout the rare time of rest.  Hours passed and John slept the dreamless sleep of the overworked.  John woke to the sound of Bear's clicking paws, and anxious panting.  John felt his warm, wet licks on his hands and bare chest.  His heart swelled as Bear nudged his nose against his ear.  The day he first saved Bear ... seemed like a lifetime ago.  And now, he was Harold's, to protect him when he couldn't be near.  But Bear always waited for him, even now.  John suddenly thought of his old childhood dog that his Dad had bought for him, shortly before the tragic explosion which killed him.  It was an Akita named...Bear.  He never told Harold that.  His Dad had named him Bear because the protective dog would bark and chase after the black bears which scavenged the surrounding hills in Pullayup.  

John remembered old memories like that every time he finished making love with Harold.  The urge to go back to sleep was strong, but he made an effort to rouse himself.  

What had just happened? What time was it? John found himself lying on the floor, and Harold still sitting above him, Both must've fallen asleep afterwards. John felt disheveled, his shirt untucked, his belt buckle undone, his hair a touseled mess. Harold was snoring contentedly, like a cat after lapping warm milk. John lay sprawled, stunned, as memories of the morning replayed: Harold's surprisingly commanding voice in the dark, "Mr. Reese --! Hold onto the straps ---" and Harold's hands caressing him through his clothes, until John could stand it no longer, and later, "sit on my desk now!". The sound of Harold pulling up a chair for himself and all the lights completely off, even the chandeliers outside the subway car. John clutching the desk's edges as Harold's hands deftly unfastening his belt, and oblivion overtaking him, as Harold made him feel like a dissected butterfly. Harold ordering him to keep silent, as John lay back on the impossibly small desk.

John didn't know this was one of Harold's "thousand and one" fantasies: reducing his lethal, ex-operative to an unthinking ball of mush in private, unknown to the rest of the world. As John gazed at Harold's sleeping figure, he was amazed once more, at how much stamina Harold still had for a man his age with all his chronic pain and limitations. He smiled to himself in the dark, remembering everything Harold had done for him. Especially, the way Harold touched his old scars and gunshot wounds as John lay gasping to recover himself and Harold felt his pounding heartbeat gradually returning to normal.

When Harold woke, his watch read four-thirty. He squinted his eyes, refocussing again on the re-lit subway car, the humming of his monitors bringing him back to reality. He looked around his headquarters for Reese. Did he leave? Without a goodbye? His coat was gone, the subway doors were open on one side, as usual. He glanced out at the wooden bench which doubled as a lunch area. There sat John: calmly drinking coffee, clothes tucked in neatly. Harold coughed to get his attention.

"Well Mr. Reese, I have never napped sitting up in that uncomfortable seat back there in the corner, in al lthe time I've been down here!"

Raising an eyebrow, while crossing and uncrossing his legs yet again, John let a rare smile spread across his face,  Harold's clothes were still rumpled after his "nap" in the uncomfortable blue seat.  

"Funny, you didn't look all that uncomfortable in that seat most of the day.." He took another sip and Harold saw his smile reach his eyes. He couldn't deny it: he had the best nap in months after John met him today on the train.

At Harold's "Hrrumph!" and heel-pivot returning back to his desk, John covered his chuckle with his hand, and reached down to pet a gratefully attentive Bear.


End file.
